


"The Saartoh-Nerappan Incident"

by chameleontattoos



Series: Wolf & Wildcat [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age II - Act 3, Gen, No Smut, Sex Toys, alternative title: the gang learns that hawke isn't vanilla, no sex toys actually appear in the text below
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25569805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleontattoos/pseuds/chameleontattoos
Summary: “Really, Isabela—Hawke—this sort of thing is not… polite table conversation,” Sebastian wheezes, pounding his chest with a fist.“Depends on the table, I should think,” Roisin says, voice muffled by her cup as she lifts it casually to her lips. “Be right at home in the Blooming Rose.”Nobody could really be bothered to ask Isabela why, exactly, she'd decided to bring up Roisin's brand spanking new curio in a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with the Qunari, specialty leather-work or any phallic objects thereby devised.That said, Isabela has never needed areasonto talk about sex toys.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Series: Wolf & Wildcat [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553473
Kudos: 15





	"The Saartoh-Nerappan Incident"

It’s a warm evening in Lowtown. Gulls call to one another as they soar above the city, the scent of brine hangs in the still air at street level, and Roisin breathes a sigh of relief when she slumps into her usual seat at Varric’s table in the Hanged Man.

“Maferath’s salty spunk, my feet are _killing_ me,” she groans, wiggling her toes as much as her toughened leather boots permit. She lets her head fall against the back of the chair, savouring how very not-in-the-sun she is. “Whose brilliant idea was it to spend all bloody day on the coast? And in this _heat_?”

Anders coughs a tired laugh. A sheen of dried sweat covers his cheekbones and brow, and a few small clumps of wet sand fall from the hem of his robes onto the carpet as he flops ungracefully into a chair. “Yours, if memory serves.”

Roisin makes a rude hand gesture in his general direction. He’s right, blast him, but he didn’t have to _say it_. “You could’ve stopped me.”

“Have _you_ tried stopping you?” Fenris scoffs, settling into the place beside hers. “It’s completely impossible.”

He doesn’t look _nearly_ as affected by the heat as Roisin feels. She resolves to push him into a nice, cold Fereldan brook at her earliest convenience.

The sheer cheek of him, being so well-suited to a Kirkwall summer. The _cheek_!

Varric—who had been too busy with _book-keeping_ and other such respectable pursuits to come traipsing over sand dunes and get grit in his britches with the rest of them—takes a sip of what looks like iced milk. “You of all people might’ve managed it. She listens to _you_.”

“Does she?” Fenris knocks his knee against the closer of Roisin’s own with a pointed, sidelong look. She twitches her nose playfully in response; the corners of his mouth curl up, and she knows she has the victory.

“Do I, indeed?” Roisin grins.

“Does Hawke what?” Isabela queries, sweeping up the stairs with a tray of drinks balanced expertly on one hand. Depositing it on the table, she drapes herself over Roisin’s shoulders like a warm, sandalwood-scented mantle and passes her a cup that is cool to the touch. “Can’t have Kirkwall’s finest getting all wrinkly and shrivelled for lack of water, can we?” she says.

“I could kiss you, Bela,” Roisin sighs happily, cradling the tin vessel close and revelling in how very not-warm it is.

“You can if you’d like.” Isabela leans in suggestively, waggling her eyebrows.

Roisin snorts, pressing her lips to the pirate’s cheek and pulling away with a loud smack of her lips. “Your payment, milady.”

“I do like generous tippers.” Isabela flows around the table like so much water and perches on the arm of Merrill’s chair. “Actually, speaking of making your own fun…”

“Uh oh.” Roisin sips her milk. “Should I be bracing myself?”

“Oh, I was just curious about something.” Isabela smirks, which makes Roisin think that yes, bracing herself might be wise. “Namely, how does the Champion of Kirkwall get her hands on a Qunari sex toy?”

Sebastian, bless his Chantry-softened heart, chokes on his drink. At the same time, Anders sprays an unfortunately timed mouthful clear across the table. He misses Merrill by a hair; she blinks, startled and fawnlike, in the aftermath.

Roisin just smiles. So _that_ was what Isabela been rummaging through her dresser for. “I have my sources.”

Fenris makes a peculiar gurgling noise. His cheeks and ears are as red as the scarf around his wrist, his eyes wide and startled. He gapes at her, apparently quite lost for words.

Varric chuckles. “I think you broke him, Hawke.”

Roisin just pats Fenris on the knee—she’ll talk to him about it later, when they haven’t got an audience.

She has no immediate desire to use the thing, really. It’s just nice to be prepared.

Anders wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “ _Maker_ , Isabela. Warn a man before you start asking questions like that, will you?”

“ _Really_ , Isabela—Hawke—this sort of thing is not… polite table conversation,” Sebastian wheezes, pounding his chest with a fist. Donnic reaches over and gives him a few solid smacks across the shoulders, which seems to aid him somewhat in regaining use of his lungs.

“Depends on the table, I should think,” Roisin says, voice muffled by her cup as she lifts it casually to her lips. “Be right at home in the Blooming Rose.”

Aveline makes a tired, drawn-out noise, as though she’s trying her hardest to sound sufficiently scandalised but prolonged exposure to Roisin’s nonsense has made it so that she really can’t bring herself to care as much as propriety dictates that she likely should. “Hawke…”

Roisin shrugs again, stretching across the table and stealing a handful of nuts from Merrill’s bowl. “It would!”

“That doesn’t mean you need to encourage—” Aveline shakes her head, not bothering to finish her sentence. “Never mind. I forgot who I was speaking to.”

Merrill leans forward, curiosity shining in her eyes. “What is it made of? Anything made by the Qunari must be quite… rugged.”

Aveline throws her hands up, defeated.

Isabela makes an amused noise. “I had to liven you lot up somehow. You're all _incredibly_ boring at this time of year.”

“It's bloody _hot_ at this time of year,” Anders retorts, dabbing sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “And we can’t all be from the tropics.”

“Fereldans,” Isabela snorts. “So very _rigid_.”

“Quite,” Roisin agrees, fighting to keep her voice somewhere in the region of _mild_. She studiously ignores the exasperated—and still decidedly pink-cheeked—glance that Fenris throws her way.

The pirate looks at her askance, a smirk threatening to curve her lips. “And large.”

Roisin snickers into her cup.

“Maker help us all,” Aveline mutters, face in her hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/solarfruit)!!


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